Rushing through Banaue

(7th place winner, Philippine STAR Travel Now Essay Writing Contest co-sponsored by Philippine Tourism Authority, Sun Village Boracay Resort and Smart Communications)

When my friends and I made the mistake of rushing things up in Banaue, we learned a most valuable lesson: When in Banaue, do as the Ifugaos do. Shed all excess baggage especially your watch and be a serious mountaineer for once. Stay at least overnight.

We were too naive and presumptuous to have braved this destination, squeezing it into our busy schedule yet. It’s 10 hours of travel by bus from Manila. That we knew. What we didn’t know, and which our tour guide Rey failed to mention, was that after a short travel by jeep, we should be willing to take a three-hour hike, if only to behold the "eighth wonder of the world" – or at least one side of it.

All we thought was that it would involve just one lousy jeep ride to get there, then we’d get off like some clueless, giddy first-timers and strike a mean pose or two with the architectural wonder as backdrop. After that, we expected to buy the requisite souvenirs – bulul (rice god), tapey (rice wine), and ikat (local weave), stash away the loot into our hired jeep and contrive on how we’d blabber back home about how nice Banaue was, how exciting, exotic and extraordinary it was.

How would I begin to describe the actual jeepney ride? Let’s see: the rocky, curvy, and occasionally muddy road is only a little more than a jeep wide but it is two-way. If two jeepneys happen to meet head-on, which our jeep did two or three times, one of them must give way by backing off and finding enough leeway for the oncoming vehicle. When our jeep did just that, I couldn’t paint my American friend Jason’s facial expression, the guy being accustomed to California’s freeways. I, myself – a veteran of Metro Manila’s mean streets – could not believe it when I saw how it was to be literally within three inches of our lives. My cousin Lyn couldn’t get herself to look down the ravine, which appeared menacing and howling.

It turned out that the reward of seeing the famed terraces can only be had by roughing it – and biding one’s sweet time. To lazybones and the elderly out there, this could mean a penitential hike that would make Holy Week penitents feel like falling short still of God’s mercy. Those three hours of a torturous hike in the heart of the Cordillera mountain range were no mean feat. My new brown leather sandals got a literal, unexpected road test through a rocky trail punctuated by a waterfall here, a boulder there, a steep incline here. Adding to our challenge, we made the mistake of taking the short-cut to Battad, the village we were aching to see. We suddenly became accidental mountaineers, a thought which, in our wildest contemplation, would never occur. The short cut turned out to be even more formidable.

Along the trail, I noticed some isolated patches of rice terraces, surely a prelude of things to come, if there must be some. I showed Jason the gigantic tree ferns by the wayside. We learned from the tour guide that the local fauna hiding among the thickets might consist of wild pigs, deer, snakes or monkeys. That distinct red-grained rice aroma didn’t escape our nostrils. Neither did the ubiquitous red-orange mayas (finches) that pecked constantly on the rice stalks. This one rice variety has very short stalks. With all the right things being complete, I could almost hear Raquel singing Ay, Ay Saliddumay.

We also learned from tour guide Rey that there is an Aeta-type tribe still living here like nomads in the thick of the conifers. We were totally incredulous: "What? Aetas in Ifugao?" Our tour guide – clad in a cowboy ensemble, complete with pointy shoes – every now and then responded in the unintelligible Ifugao language which, we learned, is quite different from Ilocano and the other Igorot languages.

Halfway through the trail, we bumped into a native couple, walking casually as though they were just on their way to buy some Medicol at Mercury Drug down the block. Again, we couldn’t believe our eyes. "People actually live here!" We wondered about the addresses of people in a place like this, should one send them mail. Our tour guide’s nearest neighbor, for instance, lived on the next mountain.

As we filled our lungs with the pine-scented air, we took note of the little pockets in the woods (might be caves), the different birds twittering, the meandering river and valley. We met an old native lady planting camote on a very steep plantation, which was presumably hers. The sight of the woman digging the earth in such a bizarre configuration taunted us no end. To salve our piqued egos, we figured that if Ifugaos would come to the lowlands, they would likewise get the creeps when they see the flat land. They would surely go, "Oh no, plains! How would I be able to walk straight without ever feeling dizzy?" True enough, later when I got back to Manila, an officemate regaled me with a story about expert climbers who had scaled several peaks victoriously only to trip over at Megamall.

It was definitely reassuring that we’re not the only ones crazy enough to see Banaue. Getting to the first view deck, which offered an unending vista of mountains, we met a young Swiss couple, an Israeli girl traveling all by her lonesome, an American man who worked for the US embassy, and a well-built PE instructor from Hawaii who flaunted his rippling shanks.

The PE teacher recalled how he had met a pregnant native along the way as he was about to give up, and how he quipped to his companions, "Uh, alright, we can do it!" The Swiss couple who were barely out of high school were surprisingly fluent in English; they boasted they were on their fourth week in the Philippines and were touring around the world for six months. They were beaming about the place. They said they also enjoyed Puerto Galera very much, calling it "the best in the world." They said their next junket would be Australia and Zimbabwe. Zimbabwe?! Dollar signs flashed through my eyes as I wondered where on earth it was and why would they ever want to see it.

The Israeli girl was a wonderment in her own right. What was a good-looking Jew doing traveling alone in uncharted parts? Our deflated ego got deflated some more. Suddenly, we thought of liquidating our tour guide right there and then just to put up appearances. Suddenly, my companions and I wanted to pretend we had never met each other.

The foreigners were amazed that we could speak English as well and that the Philippines is relatively modern. "Modern?" I could see my cousins’ eyebrows making wild furrows. We weren’t sure how to respond to the unexpected compliment. We’ve always seen our country as backwater.

When we finally, mercifully got to Battad, we were near tears, our limbs and joints and muscles creaking in awful pain. We repaired to the nearest eatery we could lay our eyes on and began clicking away at the camera like crazy. "Was that what they call ulog down there? The halfway house for the newly married where they honeymoon right after the wedding?"

If you think trekking all the way here for three sunburned hours will only get you to some lousy farm, think again. It’s not for nothing that the Banaue Rice Terraces now belongs to the elite list of UNESCO World Heritage Sites. It’s not for nothing that it’s been acknowledged as deserving of preservation for next generations to come. No less than the American Society of Civil Engineers has marveled at this prehistoric engineering feat, also called the "Stairway to Heaven."

For me, it’s the sheer magnitude of the engineering work that astounds, a tangible proof of the extent man would go to survive and conquer a seemingly impregnable terrain. The aesthetics is just the unexpected reward.

We ordered corned beef and pizza for lunch. We were attended to by a guy who went straight to the kitchen to cook the meal himself. He was into it all by himself. I was surprised to see a copy of the German magazine Der Spiegel lying about. Then a picture guide for birdwatchers – in Hebrew, among other stuff. It turned out the books and magazines had been left here by tourists from all over the world.

I alerted Jason to the presence of a native man nearby, who was clad in the traditional gear of red-black-and-white G-strings and curious accessories that signified his status in Ifugao society. Jason couldn’t hide his amusement upon seeing "an Igorot butt in my face." I didn’t tell him about the stage of "undress" Ifugao women are famous for, or he might change his mind about going back to Manila first thing tomorrow.

Soon we were in the capital town of Lagawe inspecting the curio shops. I realized how fooled I have been by the näif sensibility of Ifugao sculpture. The simplicity was deceptive. Human and animal figures actually border on sophisticated abstractions. The native handicrafts exude a grace that is distinctive and incomparable.

Our tour guide, the Jun Aristorenas clone, suggested that we check the waterfalls and the village downstairs but we protested. Because of our respective jobs, we needed to get back to Manila as soon as we could the next day. I ordered San Miguel beer for the impossible trek back (yes, beers are available) and longed for a horse (not available).

On the road to Pangasinan via the Sta. Fe-Solano Road, we couldn’t help thinking about how government could widen the trails, make new roads or install cable cars so that Banaue would become a more accessible destination, however ridiculous and anachronistic cable cars sounded. I was thinking about the giant earthworms and erosion that are reportedly slowly bringing the terraces to imminent destruction.

I was thinking: What if all the Ifugao farmers indeed gave up farming altogether? What if the place became really accessible and the natives developed a craving for color TV and fast food? I remember that during the bus ride to Banaue, when we were approaching the capital town of Lagawe, I heard Michael Bolton singing and I got mysterious goose bumps.

Despite the rush, we realized we had grown fearfully fond of Banaue. No, we actually feel in love with it, we’re jealous of anybody touching it with the hands of so-called progress.